


and if you're partial to the night sky

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, F/M, M/M, Post-Break Up, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13254405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Craig is overextending himself in an effort to forget a failed relationship. Maybe to remember the relationship, or to wallow in it. He isn't sure.Things are easier when you are busy, he knows that much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean finish things I already have partially written? Title taken from Hannah by the Freelance Whales.
> 
> Trigger warning for drug use.

“Yeah Mom, I'll take out the trash. Uh huh, I know, put the lid down. I remember the raccoons. No, I don't want to clean up garbage from the yard again.” Craig took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“My lunch break is only thirty minutes and I need to actually eat lunch.” He rolled his eyes, staring at the stacks of to-go cups stretching up to graze the plaster ceiling of the backroom. 

“Love you, too. Yeah, save me a plate.” He stuffed his phone into his front jean pocket, letting out a sigh. Carefully, he stepped over piles of napkins that Ike was supposed to stock before he left yesterday. Craig made a mental note as he pulled out his sandwich. 

Turkey and swiss on wheat bread with mayo. Nothing fancy. On days where he packed his own lunch, which was the vast majority of the time, despite still living with his parents, he kept it simple. There was a snack bag of plain potato chips floating around in his backpack, as well as an apple that he packed daily, but never seemed to eat. The red apple would surely be placed back in the fruit bowl, like every other day, and he'd take a cookie from the cafe.

The Tweak's only paid him ten dollars an hour to be their assistant manager, even with the true manager missing in action. He didn't feel bad about his pastry consumption. The job deserved at least one perk, because he didn't trust the coffee blends. Tweek had mainlined that shit for ages, and now he was slumming it in Denver for all Craig knew. 

Tweek was the original perk of the job. Drop out of college, work for his boyfriend's parents, and help Tweek get his life together. Craig hadn't gotten a raise since being hired on, but he did get the joy of learning that the old secret blend was laced with meth. Richard swore that he changed it when Tweek started doing heroin. When they caught him shooting up in the far corner of the stockroom, his eyes glazed over in a stupor Craig had always associated with coming down from a panic attack.

That was five years ago. Tweek had been rushed off to rehab, spending ten weeks in the desert of Nevada “finding his center and healing his spirit,” or some other hippie bullshit. He came back, smiling over tea in their shared apartment, saying he was getting his life on track. That he found his zen in the desert and had learned how to cope with his issues.

In reality the first facility gave him a notebook filled with drug users phone numbers, an intimate knowledge of scoring said drugs, and a laundry list of ways to hide his usage from family and friends. 

Craig huffed, crumpling the napkin from his sandwich into a ball. He had been trying not to think of Tweek. Last summer Tweek checked out from a “holistic recovery experience” ten miles outside of Denver. He complained that the farm work wasn't helping him kick any habits, just made his hands blister. He cried that he wasn't allowed his Klonopin, swearing that if Craig let him back home he'd get clean. He swore up and down that he'd really try this time. It'd be different. 

This song and dance was familiar. Tweek promises, Craig agrees. Tweek uses within two months, Craig tells him to go back to rehab. The Tweak's shell out for the tab to assuage their guilt. Every time Tweek would phone Craig, citing that it's too restrictive, that these people don't understand. They think he's paranoid and sad, but he's not, he's not, he just misses Craig so much. He's learned so much in the last six days, it's been life changing. Just let him come home.

In July, Craig had said no. 

No, I will not come get you. 

No, you cannot come home until the program is done. 

No, I will not continue in this relationship if you leave the facility. 

To Craig's surprise, Tweek left anyway. He screamed that he'd get clean without him, that he didn't need Craig dragging him down, anyways. They hadn't spoke since. Craig's last words had been, “you know the number to call when you want to get sober.” 

Craig moved boxes of Tweek's belongings into his parents basement when he broke the lease for an apartment he couldn't bear to be in alone. The other never bothered to collect his crap, but Craig didn't have the heart to toss it. 

Well, he did trash the tourniquet and little ball of tin foil he found in a carved out copy of Alice in Wonderland. 

He saved the little bottle of Narcan, keeping it in his pocket always, just in case Tweek came home. 

In case Tweek needed him. 

But Tweek wasn't here, and Craig was on the last dregs of his lunch break. 

The second half of Craig's shift was uneventful. The same rush of teenagers when school let out. A few indignant, middle-aged, white women complaining about wait times while he made drinks. 

For some godforsaken reason Richard and Helen wanted the shop open until ten on a Wednesday night during the end of January. Something about customers being spoiled by the holiday hours in December, so they ought to keep them year round. Craig was against the idea. He was the only true manager until Tweek returned. If Tweek ever returned. It had been seven months without so much as a text from the blonde. 

Being the sole manager meant that Craig worked six doubles a week. Mercifully, Richard and Helen took the entirety of Thursdays, giving him one day to crash in his childhood bedroom. At least sixty hours of his hundred hour hell week were billed at fifteen dollars an hour. Not that he had the time to enjoy the cash. 

Not that he enjoyed much in his life anymore. 

He sent a teenage girl, Rebecca something, she was new and he didn't really care, home at eight. Might as well save his employers a few bucks. 

“Bye, Mr. Tucker,” her braces showed when she spoke, green and yellow brackets alternating around her teeth. “See you Friday. We work together again, isn't that great?” 

“Uh huh, see you then.” She waved her hand frantically as the front door chimed. Her blonde hair bobbed up and down in a stubby ponytail as she hightailed it down the sidewalk. 

Tweek used to wear his hair like that for work. If he wore it down, he would be worried it could get in a drink. He thought that whoever drank it would choke, and then he'd go to jail. The scene usually ended with him hyperventilating, pulling at his hair as he rocked on the ground. 

Tweek had been held overnight for possession. The threat of jail never kept him from his fix.

Craig frowned, running a hand through his dark hair. This is how evenings usually went; the lag in orders allowed him to think. He only thought about Tweek in the stillness of it all. He supposed it was the natural order of things. He had spent a lot of time in this shop with Tweek. Sitting at the bar while Tweek worked with his mother behind the counter. Picking up Tweek at closing and driving him home in Thomas' old pick-up truck. Having sex in the backseat of that truck in the parking lot around the back. Spraying Tweek with a canister of whipped cream after Craig was hired on at twenty, then laughing together as they rushed to clean up the mess. 

There was also finding Tweek with his head lulled against the bathroom stall. Tweek being forcibly removed by Craig to be taken to a court mandated therapy session he had tried to skip. Three separate interventions where everyone wrote letters and Tweek cried, agreeing to go wherever his parents had picked out. Craig, promising not to enable him, then driving to whatever place to take him away before the first week was even over. 

A ding from the door pulled Craig out of his thoughts. 

“Welcome to Tweak Bros,” he said, lacking enthusiasm. 

“Aw, thank you,” a blonde woman in a green dress with matching scarf beamed. Craig smiled back, a habit ingrained from years of food service. 

“Can I get your order?” Nine-thirty, it was almost time for Craig to count out the drawer and lock up. With any luck he'd be asleep in an hour. 

“I guess I'll take a latte, hot? I don't know, what do you recommend, Craig?” Name tags were a blight to humanity. This stranger, a woman, maybe a few years older than him with a painted on face was addressing him as if they were chummy. 

“The lattes are good.” Craig didn't drink anything from this place, but it was easy to say it was all good. Sugar and dairy was good. These drinks were sugar first, a little cream, and a hint of coffee.

“Well, okay then,” the woman ran her hands together as she spoke. “Just the latte then.”

“Name for the order?” Also known as the stupidest company policy. Craig disliked misspelling strangers names in black marker. 

Shucks, you can call me Mary if you like.” 

Craig wanted to say that he would like to be at home, tucked underneath a mound of blankets as he holed himself up in his room for the entirety of the next day. He just wrote Mary on the cup, trying not to roll his eyes. Hopefully her name was M-A-R-Y, not M-E-R-R-Y, or some other bastardization of the name. And if it wasn't, hopefully she had the sense to keep her mouth shut.

He made the drinks, cringing as he dirtied a freshly cleaned machine. He placed the cup on the bar, waiting for the woman to leave. 

She took a seat, sipping at the drink, leaving lipstick prints on the lid. Craig turned to clean, rolling his eyes out of her sight line. 

With his luck she was probably meeting someone. And that someone would want a frozen drink.

“You seem awfully lonely, Craig.” He span around to look at the woman drumming her manicured nails on the cup. 

“Doing great, thanks,” his teeth were clenched as he spoke. He had half the mind to rip his name tag off and toss it at her head. 

“I didn't mean to upset you, golly. I'm in town and was just looking to chat. I'm over stepping my bounds, aren't I?” Her green eyes shone with tears as she rambled into her drink. 

“Don't worry about it,” Craig's voice was a steady monotone. “Just tired from a long shift.” 

“Geeze Lousie, are you closing up? I forget this ain't the big city and things don't stay open all night, shoot. Sorry to keep you here. I'll mosey on out. Do you want my number? Let me just leave it for you in case you want to talk a bit.” Mary leaned over the counter, pulling a pen out of the bucket by the register. 

Quickly she scrawled ten digits on a napkin, signing it with a lopsided heart. Craig stared, dumbstruck at the writing as the woman walked towards the door. 

“Text me, you know, if you feel up to it,” she waved, wiggling all her fingers individually. Craig swore he saw her wink as the door swung shut. 

Ten minutes until close and he was staring at that damn napkin. He had spelled her name right, that's why he looked, he told himself. 

For confirmation.

He pulled out his phone and added her number, just to be absolutely sure he had gotten her name right.


	2. Chapter 2

Craig was successful in sleeping away his whole Thursday. He woke up at three in the afternoon, realized he smelled horrendous, a mix of body odor and old coffee, and jumped in the shower.

The water was hot on his skin, loosening up the muscles in his back. He cracked his neck to each side as he rolled his shoulders open. It felt nice to take his time in the shower. No rush to stuff himself into his work uniform. No having to start his car bleary eyed as he scraped ice off of the windows. If he left by half past four, he could be there at a quarter til, which was just enough time to open by five. 

But today, today he could drain the whole water heater if he wanted to. The novelty of the shower wore off after about twenty minutes, though. The longest he had ever gone was thirty five, but he had help.

He sighed, realizing that this was what he'd spend the rest of his one free day thinking about. This was what he spent most of his time thinking about. He toweled off, slipping into a pair of gray sweatpants that pinched the fat on his stomach. 

Maybe he had been eating too many sweets, but it's not like he had anyone to care about his waistline. The soft pudginess of his hips were covered by the apron. It's not like the general public could really see the roll of fat protruding from the top of his jeans.

Tweek wouldn't have complained. Not that his opinion had any bearing over Craig Tucker's life. 

Craig knew that was a lie, but sometimes a lie was easier to digest than the truth. 

He didn't want to admit that he still thought about Tweek's spindly fingers leaving red marks on his hips. He didn't think of the way the room smelled when his face was forced into their pillows. He never remembered the high pitched squeals that rang through his ears when Tweek spilled into him. 

Craig Tucker was a shitty liar. 

He plopped down on his unmade twin bed, the same one he had left here when he went to college. His father helped him haul the queen mattress he shared with Tweek down two flights of stairs to the apartment dumpster. It had been the first snow of the season the day they packed the truck. The sun didn't shine that whole day. The middle of November was always rough. 

He had lived in this room for two months. He had nine days off, one that was spent moving his possessions into the basement. The other eight he spent sleeping, eating, and wasting time on the internet. 

His laptop was old, once a sleek black, but the sheen had rubbed off the edges, peeling back in gummy strips towards the center. He had the money for a new one, but he did not have the mental energy to browse websites, to compare prices and stats of different models. Instead he booted up the machine, leaning against his pillow as the screen stalled. 

He quickly ran his finger in a zig-zag pattern in an attempt to wake up the touch pad. A picture of Tweek at Denver Pride last year was surrounded various icons. The mouse came to life, wildly jumping around the screen. He found himself tracing Tweek's wild blonde hair, lingering on the rainbow eye shadow that took ages to put on. His eyes were closed in the picture, showing off his artistry, but Craig had the suspicion he had taken something earlier in the day. There was pressure towards the end of the night to let Tweek fuck him in a port-a-potty. It was Pride, he said. Everyone was doing it. 

It had turned into an argument, which quickly lead to accusations. Craig knew it would be hard for Tweek to resist the pull to party, but he agreed to go anyway. Maybe it was a stupid thing for him to agree to. Maybe they should have stayed home and snuggled in bed. Maybe they'd be together in their apartment if they had just skipped the whole thing. 

By the end of that month Craig had found two pipes, on separate occasions, and an empty medicine bottle with Marvin Marsh's name printed on the front. He had been dead for five years, how did he even get that? Craig had hoped the bottle had been mostly empty upon receipt. When confronted Tweek said it was old, that he was sober, how dare Craig not trust him. 

The anxiety medication disappeared a week after they refilled the prescription, somehow taken out of the safe Craig kept the meds in. The next day it was replaced with ten too many in the same bottle. Craig was angry, fuming, but Tweek had cried, said he had a panic attack and needed extra to calm down, it wasn't his fault. 

It wasn't until Craig opened the bathroom to see Tweek with a needle stuck between his toes that they drove in utter silence to Tweek's childhood home. It was one thirty in the morning when Craig beat on the door; the summer night not quiet warm enough for Tweek to be standing on the porch in his boxers. 

He hadn't even tried to defend himself as Craig told the story. He didn't say it wasn't what it looked like. It was a very clear image in his head still; his boyfriend looking defeated as his bosses, the owners of the shop, the catalysts to this whole damn mess, frowned and complained of their disappointment. 

Tweek was sent to detox for the ninth time, then transferred to the farm the Tweak's had picked out. They paid the bill, so they chose the facility. They all looked nice enough from the websites to Craig. 

Sometimes Craig wished he had driven to pick him up, just so he would know where the blonde was right now. 

Craig went through his regular Thursday ritual. First he opened Facebook, ignoring his notifications, and searched for Tweek Tweak. Once the page was loaded and Craig saw his last status update, a Buzz Feed share from the night before Detox, something about how he was Stefon from SNL. Tweek added a rant about how it was such a straight person's interpretation of what they though a gay man acted like. That the culture was not just getting high and being promiscuous. Craig had taken the quiz and gotten Dwayne Vogelcheck, which he had a nice laugh at.

Next he searched on Google. Tweek didn't answer his phone, and after a few months Craig had it deactivated. He knew that his number was ingrained in Tweek's mind. He wrote it in the front covers of all his books, just in case he forgot it and wanted to call from rehab. Nothing new in the first ten pages of results. 

Lastly, he looked at the South Park County Jail's website, scouring to see if maybe Tweek was incarcerated. At least if he was behind bars, then Craig knew he wasn't dead. He wasn't there either. 

He slammed the laptop shut, pushing it off of his stomach, then grabbed his phone, swiping the Starfleet insignia on the dot grid to unlock the screen. One missed call. He rushed to check from whom, hoping to see an unfamiliar number. He exhaled a breath he didn't remember holding when he saw it was just Clyde. 

All six text messages were also from Clyde. Nothing important. 

Clyde wanted to meet him at Skeeter's tonight. A string of messages about needing to get turnt up. Craig sent a quick response. 

“Sober. Not going to Skeeter's.” Craig had been sober ever since the first rehab. He made a promise to Tweek; they would both be sober. It'd be okay. They'd get through it together. 

The phone started to shake in his grip within seconds of sending the text. 

“The hell do you want, Donovan?” Craig's voice was rough as he mashed the speakerphone button, letting the device fall to his lap. 

“Oh ho, the Craiganator lives and breathes.” Craig rolled his eyes as Clyde spoke animatedly. “What's crackin' bro? I swung by the shop, looking to get some face time with my bestie. Imagine my shock when I found Mr. Tweak. He said you had the whole day off. We should do something super sweet.” 

“Super sweet? Are you fucking serious?” Craig cracked his fingers while staring at the popcorn ceiling. As a kid he wanted to have it scraped, but now it wasn't so bad to absentmindedly find patterns in the chaos. It beat giving Clyde his full attention. 

“You are such an old man, Tucker. How can a twenty-five year old be this lame?” 

“Great talking to you, Clyde. So glad we could catch up.” And with that Craig hung up the phone. 

It buzzed from it's place on the nightstand, casting a blue light on a pile of Tweek's books. Three self-help books his boyfriend had read through multiple times, and a NA book he had highlighted in four different colors. Sometimes, when Craig felt especially lonely, he'd open the book to the date, seeing what notes Tweek had left in the margins. 

“Just for Today: I will take my recovery home with me.” The words were highlighted in neon orange. In the blank space at the bottom, Tweek's cursive handwriting read, “Craig appreciates seeing my recovery. My recovery will strengthen our relationship.” 

He slammed the book shut, lips snarled as he dropped it back on the nightstand. Tweek was not sharing shit with him. He didn't even know where his boyfriend was, let alone if he was truly sober. 

Craig sulked downstairs taking a family sized bag of barbecue potato chips and a sleeve of chocolate chips cookies from the pantry. Luckily, Tricia wasn't camped out in the living room watching Court TV with her bare feet propped up on the couch cushions.

Last time she had caught him raiding the pantry, the Thursday before last, she looked up from her spot, smacked her lips twice, then called him a fat slob. He didn't say anything, just flipped her off as he climbed up the stairs with an entire box of Little Debbie brownies. 

It wasn't her business. 

He stole away with his snacks, first pulling a full two liter of generic cola from the fridge. Once he was safely in his room, he smashed the bag of chips open, relishing in the loud pop, then took a handful and stuffed them into his mouth. By the time he sat on his bed, he had eaten three handfuls, the crumbs getting caught in his dark chest hair.

He took a long swig straight from the bottle, them rested the oversize cola within arms reach. He shoved two cookies into his mouth, finding them a bit stale. He chewed and swallowed, regardless. He knew it wasn't so much about enjoying tastes, as it was about feeling full. 

Two missed calls from Clyde. He swiped the notifications away, setting an alarm for four in the morning. 

The rest of the night was spent washing down salty and sweet with the sharp fizziness of his drink. He didn't know when he fell asleep, but his alarm came too soon.


	3. Chapter 3

“You never called, you know?” A woman in a pink sweater, turtleneck pulled tight underneath her chin smiled as she leaned on the counter. Was she resting her breasts on lip of the wood? Craig sighed, looking up from the milk steamer. 

“Excuse me?” Craig choked out, fighting his innate urge to flip her off.

“I gave you my number. I thought you might want to chat, or something. You seem real lonely, Craig.” The woman twisted a ring on her pinkie, the stone catching the light momentarily. Her bracelets clanged together as he screwed a cheap, plastic lid onto her drink. 

“I'm gay,” he deadpanned, sliding the drink across the bar. 

“Oh, I'm flattered you think I'm interested. Shucks, I just wanted to talk, nothing dirty,” her fingers circled the rim of her drink as she blushed. “You don't remember me none, do you?” 

“You gave me your number and bought a latte, ma'am,” his teeth were clinched as he sucked in a breath. He held it for three seconds, feeling like he was going to burst, then exhaled loudly through his nose. Tweek had always hated that, but it's not like he was here. 

“That was almost a month ago, geeze. Craig? Don't I look familiar?” He opened his mouth, noticing a small scar beneath her eye. He shut it, pressing his lips together in a thin line as he furrowed his brow. Squinting was not helping him remember this lady. He let out an exasperated sigh, eyes rolling to the ceiling. 

“I knew you, from school, Tweek too.” 

“Great, a fucking fan girl, exactly what I need,” he bit his tongue after, then thought better of his silence. What where they going to do, fire him? Richard Tweek would have to come to work if Craig was fired, and he knew that was never a real option. 

“It's not like that,” she rushed, hands shaking out in front of her.

“What, you want an update on our life story? Tweek is a drug addict and who the fuck knows where he is. He's certainly not here,” he snarled as she shrinked back. “Oh, that doesn't fit your narrative of true love? No? Too fucking bad, welcome to reality.” 

She stared in silence, fidgeting with a lock of hair near her ear. Craig glanced at the clock, still tense from the conversation. How dare she come here, demanding to speak to him. Was he lonely? Shit, yes he was lonely. Was it her business? Hell no.

“I'm closing,” he spat, refusing to meet her eyes. Her heels clicked on the floor. 

Once the door dinged, he screamed. He pounded his fists on the counter until it hurt. It hadn't been a great day to start, not with his car refusing to turn, then opening the shop late. It was only ten minutes past five, but Lord knows that some bitter old man had to let him know what the posted hours were.

The only saving grace of this day, the one where his pants finally wore clear through the thighs, was that it was a Wednesday. Once he finished counting the till he could disappear for twenty-four hours. It was nearly thirty hours alone, if he made it home by eleven. 

When he turned his key in the door, someone coughed. 

“Of course,” he grumbled, arms in the air. “Of fucking course. Wallet is in the front pocket, take it. I don't care.” 

“Oh, hamburgers, I didn't mean to frighten you none. Shoot, it's just me, Mary. I wanted to talk, but then you said you were closing so I waited,” she stammered, barely illuminated in the streetlights. “Maybe we can go to Skeeter's and grab a drink. Skeeter's is still around, ain't it?” 

“I'm sober. I keep my promises,” he spat, words dripping with venom meant for someone else. 

“Well, how about a bite to eat. You look like you like to eat, right?” His eyebrows shot up as a hand covered her mouth. “Not like that, not like you're fat. I mean, you're fat, but it's fine, I like you still. I mean, I always kinda liked you, even when we were kids. Oh no, this ain't going well.” 

“You seem like a treasure,” he mumbled, staggering towards his car. 

“Meet me at the Village Inn, or Benny's. Which ever you prefer. Please Craig? We used to be friends. It sucks not having any friends, you know that, right?” 

“We were friends?” Craig questioned, sliding into his car. “Seems unlikely.” 

“Oh geeze, I suppose so. Not like we were real close after fifth grade, but you know, we were pleasant to each other. Well I was pleasant, you were mostly just yourself, but that was sorta pleasant, in it's own way,” her hands wrung together as Craig slammed the car door shut. 

“Benny's,” Craig shouted, window closed. She smiled, and he could swear she bounced as she trotted off to her car. He was certain he didn't know this woman, but he was sure that his dazzling personality would drive her away. Being himself was good relationship deterrent, not that he was looking. 

“I can't believe you agreed,” she rambled, tugging at her sweater sleeves. “I'm in town to visit with my folks, it's not my favorite thing to do, but I do it, you know?” 

“You sure are chatty,” he groused as he propped the door open. The hostess looked dead in the eyes, even as a smile painted her face. He knew the feeling. 

“Just two, ma'am.” 

Craig dutifully followed Mary, feet barely lifting off of the ground. He slipped into the booth, sending a prayer that she wasn't a freak who wanted to be on the same side. 

“It's real nice to get to sit down with you. Sorry about Tweek, I know you were real close.” Who did he know that said real so often? Was it a TV character? A regular customer? Her face lit up as her mouth closed. She was looking at him expectantly, and he hadn't been listening. 

“So, we know each other?” Craig started, flipping open his menu. He knew he wanted pancakes, it was the only thing salvageable from this whole damned restaurant. “How?”

“School, you're so silly, it's me-” a waitress stepped to the table, leaning on her elbows. She introduced herself with a name Craig couldn't be bothered to remember. Mary was chatting up a storm as the waitress stood frozen with a pen and pad of paper in her hands. 

“I'll take an orange juice,” he interrupted, not caring about their conversation. Did she want to talk with him, or with some stranger at a diner? 

“Uh, just a chocolate milk, thanks,” she bashfully smiled, eyes cast down. 

“Great,” the waitress mumbled, whirling away. 

“So what's good here?” She asked, menu shielding her face. 

“Nothing,” he deadpanned. 

“Well, what are you gonna get?”

“Pancakes.” 

“Then me too, that'll make it easy,” she folded the menu, pushing it to the center of the table. 

“So, we know each other?” Craig asked again. This time an orange juice was in front of him as her mouth opened. He recited the order, pancakes, for both of them. 

“So, how's life, Craig?” She sipped at her drink, puckering her lips around a straw. What kind of adult drank chocolate milk? 

“Awful, I thought that was clear.”

“I'm doing alright. I'm a maid, well, I clean houses. It's hard work, but it's mindless, you know. It pays okay, that's what's important. I have a one bedroom in Denver, just me. I thought about getting a cat, but then do I get a cat or a kitten, a boy or a girl? It's a lot of decisions, right?” 

“Sure,” he agreed, draining his drink. 

“I knew you'd get it. My dad said I was thinking too hard about it, that I shouldn't get a cat, that I shouldn't even exist, living in sin, all that,” Craig's head titled, trying to process that last bit, “but you were always real nice, so I knew you'd get it. Even if you're prickly, you're a nice fella.” 

“Thanks, I think. So we went to school together?” He dodged over the nastier parts of that conversation; flashbacks of Clyde sobbing in his arms as at two am clouded his vision. 

“Yeah, we sure did. Mr. Garrison's class, the first class, third grade, not fourth. I mean, we were in fourth together too. Oh, look, pancakes!” Made fresh his ass. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate you bringing out our food so quick.” 

“Uh-huh,” she droned, leaving quickly.

“So who are you?” Craig asked, drizzling syrup onto his short stack. So he didn't drizzle, it was more of a downpour, but that was simply semantics.

“I go by Mary, but Marjorine, I guess,” she grinned, knife in her hand.

“Yeah, sure,” he rolled his eyes, digging into the tub of margarine next. He scooted a handful of the individual containers towards her. 

“Oh, thanks, how did you know I needed that?” 

“You just said, margarine, in your stupid accent,” Craig grumbled, hastily stuffing a bite of pancake into his mouth. 

“Oh, that's not what I meant. This is a real hard talk, sorry, buddy. You eat awfully quick, don't you?” Craig continued to shovel food into his mouth as he gave her the middle finger. “It's alright, Craig. I don't mind.” 

“So were you, like friends with Stan and those douchebags? I don't remember them having any girls, just Wendy and Heidi,” not that he gave a shit. 

“They weren't that bad,” she stalled, tapping her fingertips together as he scrapped syrup off his plate. 

“They were awful,” he protested, finishing his juice. The tartness made me scowl as he swished it around his mouth. “Like little terrorists, don't even bother to deny it. Terrorists.” 

“Oh geeze,” she dropped her silverware, pushing her plate away, “I mean they were, they were something, but it wasn't that bad, right?” 

“I stand by my statement,” Craig snorted. “Check please,” he waved his arm in the air, catching the eye of their server. 

“We didn't get a chance to talk, Craig. You said we could talk, can we talk? Please?” Her eyes were wide as he dropped a twenty onto the checkbook.

“We talked. I don't know you,” he stretched upwards as he unfurled from the booth. She chased after him, chattering in the background as he rushed to his car. 

“It's Butters!” She screamed as he sat in the drivers seat. “I'm Butters!” 

“What?” He asked, door wide open. Her eyes were filled with tears as she balled her fists. Red nails dug into her skin as she stood in the headlights. 

“It's me, Butters. Leopold Stotch, please, can we just talk?” She sniffled, staring forward in a haze. 

“Get in,” he relented, leaning his head against the headrest. 

“Nice car, by the way,” she mumbled, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I didn't know how to tell you.” 

“Scream it in a parking lot, that seems as classy a way as any,” Craig dryly laughed. 

“You don't mind none, do you?” She stared at her hands, chipping away at the polish. Craig, without thinking, reached his hand out to stop her. It's how it always was with Tweek. Stop him from fidgeting, comfort him, reassure him. 

“Sorry,” he blushed, pulling his hand back to the steering wheel. 

“It was nice.” 

“I don't care that you're a girl or a queer, or whatever,” Craig broke the silence. “You're insufferable either way, to me, at least.” 

“Shucks,” she blubbered, palms rubbing her face, “that's an awfully sweet thing to say. Thanks, it means a lot to me.” 

“Yeah, just, uh, get it together before you go back to your car,” he squeezed at the wheel, uncomfortable with the way the situation was unfolding. She nodded, blowing her nose into her sleeve. Her makeup dripped down her cheeks, and he supposed that she did look a little bit like Butters. 

“Thanks Craig, I appreciate you being so supportive,” he chuckled, relishing the low bar she had set for human interaction. “Maybe call me sometime? Or text, I'm not a great texter with nails, but I'm getting way better. It could be like practice, you know, if you want.” 

“Maybe,” he hesitated.

“I'll come by after my visit with my folks, it's the highlight of my night, you know.” 

“Getting coffee while I glare at you is a highlight?” Craig turned the car, which somehow, by some witchcraft, started on the first crank. 

“You're not mean, just a grump.” 

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself,” he rolled his eyes, “have a goodnight, Mary.”

**Author's Note:**

> Man, that wasn't the Creek you were looking for? I do not play with that angst tag.
> 
> Looks like we're all in for some rarepair, alright, alright.
> 
> Also no promises on update times for this, because I should probably not have four in progress things going on. 2018 is already the year of bad decisions.


End file.
